


Unholy

by Thalius



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Armour Symbolism, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Missing Scene, Psychological Trauma, S2E7 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28034703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalius/pseuds/Thalius
Summary: There is an uncomfortable kind of intimacy in transgression.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Cara Dune, Din Djarin & Migs Mayfeld
Comments: 43
Kudos: 820
Collections: Noice





	Unholy

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended as a filler scene near the end of Chapter 15 exploring Din's immediate thoughts/feelings of having to remove his helmet in front of other people.

The gyroscopic interior of Fett’s ship groaned on its axles as they touched down on Morak’s surface, finally coming to a merciful standstill. They’d spent the past several minutes strapped to their seats, roiling around like rag dolls as Fett narrowly avoided being shot down. Mayfeld wasn’t one to bitch about having his life saved, but he may have a few choice words for the pilot this time around.

The engine hummed as it wound down. When the walls finally stopped moving, Mayfeld opened his eyes. He fucking hated flying.

 _“It’s too dangerous to hang in the air,”_ Fett reported calmly from the cockpit. _“We’ll wait for Fennec and Dune to catch up with us here. Sit tight.”_

The shriek of TIE fighters was only just audible, a distant but still very real threat. It easily blended in with the white noise of the pings and creaks of the ship as it settled into a temporary slumber, and finally Mayfeld’s stomach settled. He wanted air, and a beer too; the glass slices of the _Slave I’s_ hull even permitted him a view he would normally relish, but he didn’t indulge now. Instead he looked at Mando.

He’d been quiet, which wasn’t unusual for the guy, but he sat so rigidly in his chair now that he’d probably shatter if someone tapped him.

Mayfeld cleared his throat. He felt like he’d walked in on a private conversation. “You uh, you good?”

His helmet tilted ever so slightly. It wasn't an acknowledgment; more like the twitch of a jammed gear. He said nothing—again, no surprise there.

Mayfeld blew out a breath and let his legs stretch out in front of him. The high of the fight had left him quickly, like it always did. But it was a high he hadn’t felt in a while. He forgot how much he missed it. “I say that went well, all things considered.”

The cheap, shitty faux-leather of the stormtrooper gloves creaked as Mando’s hand tightened into a fist on his thigh, balling up part of his pant leg. Had he always been shaking? It had been hard to tell when they were in the air.

Mayfeld frowned. “You’re not gonna throw up or anything, are you?”

The question seemed to startle him. Mando jerked, confused or maybe appalled, and then surprised him by answering. “No.”

“You need like water or something?”

“No.”

“Cool.” He peeled his own gloves off, letting them drop to the floor, and flexed his hands, wiping the slimy sweat off on his sleeves. “You ever done that before?” 

The helmet turned in his direction. He couldn’t see the guy’s face now, but he remembered what he looked like. It felt wrong, like hearing a secret he wasn’t supposed to. 

And he’d called him Brown Eyes, too, not thinking. Did that count as racism? Or Mando-ism? Whatever. An apology formed in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down. They’d both been talking out of their asses, and besides, he’d saved Mando’s hide. They were square.

“No,” Mando said again, the word quiet. “Never.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

He could feel the glare, even through the visor. “No.” The word came out harsh this time, and for a moment he sounded more like himself.

Mayfeld nodded. He didn’t really want to babysit his feelings anyway. But it nagged at him, a wrinkle in what was supposed to be an otherwise solid victory. He couldn’t get the look in the man’s eyes out of his head. 

“But you’re good?” he asked, compelled by some inner guilt that was a lot stronger than he anticipated. “You’re still….” He gestured vaguely in his direction. “You?”

Mando looked down at his lap. He sat straight-backed in his chair, hands locked into brutal fists at his thighs. His breathing was coming out harsher now, the plastoid breastplate rising and falling more rapidly with each exhale. 

Mayfeld had seen plenty of people have panic attacks before. He’d endured a few himself. But this guy was about to have an existential crisis right in front of him, and he was not prepared to deal with that.

“Hey.” He shifted lower down in his seat to reach over and tap Mando’s boot with his own. “You did what you needed to. There’s plenty of honour in that. Your people oughta know that, right? You didn’t do it for fun.”

“It’s done,” Mando whispered. His head hung and he leaned forward, bending slightly at the waist like there was some horrible pain in his stomach. He didn’t quite curl in on himself, but his silhouette was looking decidedly shrimp-like.

Mayfeld winced. He wasn’t sure how much talking would help, but there wasn’t a lot else to do. “Why don’t you take that shit off?” 

When Mando’s helmet snapped up at him, he raised his hands. “I didn’t mean here. Go—change, get out of that garbage.”

“You saw my face,” Mando replied harshly, as if he hadn’t even been listening.

“Forget about it.”

His head hung again. He was probably fogging up his visor with all that huffing. The helmet shook. “No,” he said. “No, I can’t.”

“Well, I can. I barely remember what you look like already,” he lied. “You’re very forgettable.”

Mando either didn’t get or didn’t appreciate the joke, because he gave no response. At least he’d stopped shivering. God, he looked like a lost little kid, curled up in his seat. And he’d been scared of this guy?

“What I’m trying to say,” Mayfeld tried again, probably not a good idea, “is that anyone who thinks you aren’t honourable or principled, or whatever, for doin’ that, you can write them off.”

“It’s not that simple,” Mando ground out. He was looking at Mayfeld again; he could practically feel his eyes burning holes into him. He knew the colour of them now. “They have a scan of my face.”

“What good is that when you don’t show it to anyone else? And besides, we blew the place up—or I did. Those terminals don’t upload that frequently. It’s probably lost. And everyone else who saw you is dead.”

“Except for you.”

Mayfeld straightened in his seat. They stared at each other. He remembered the hallway on the prison ship. For a man who wore a suit of armour, he could move quietly. And very, very quickly.

“Yeah, and?” He raised a brow, swallowing down the sudden jolt of fear. “You gonna do something about it?”

“I should.” He let out a choked breath and rocked in his seat, saying something Mayfeld didn’t catch. He didn’t recognise the language either. “But you helped me.”

“I did.”

“I don’t know.” His helmet shook, like he was rejecting the whole conversation. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Getting your kid back is a good start. You still have that data stick?”

He nodded, and fumbled for his pocket. Retrieving the stick, he held it out to the cabin, visor fixated on it, like a man clutching a torch in a dark room. His hand wavered were it hung in the air.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, you’re golden.”

They both looked up as the hold doors groaned, the pressure hissing as the airlock began to open. Mando shoved the data stick back in his pocket and straightened.

“Not a word,” Mando said to him.

Mayfeld pressed a hand to his chest. “Warrior’s honour.”

He could hear Fennec and Dune speaking quietly as the hull peeled itself open. The cabin air rushed out, and then fresh, humid air was sucked back in. Mayfeld breathed deeply. These were probably the last gulps of fresh air he was ever gonna get.

“And thank you,” Mando added, so quietly he could barely be heard over the sound of the door opening. “I won’t kill you.”

“Thanks,” Mayfeld replied. From anyone else, he would’ve thrown a punch. But for some reason, coming from a Mandalorian, he knew it was supposed to be a compliment.

* * *

Cara had stowed his _beskar’gam_ inside the barebones barracks they’d all been sleeping in, anticipating his desire to put it back on as soon as possible. The courtesy made his eyes sting.

It took him a long time to put it all back on. He could feel every hit he’d taken, every punch he’d failed to avoid, and they burned as he went through the painstaking process of assembling his armour. Moving hurt, a lot. His left arm wasn’t broken, but the bruise on his forearm was a troublingly deep red. His vambrace curled protectively around it now, padded by his bodysuit, but the injury still throbbed. 

His bandolier ended up being the most difficult piece; it required movement of both his shoulder and his arm, but he had to do it himself—not even Fett could help him with this, not this time. Long minutes of hissing, aching, and careful adjusting finally got it to settle across his chest, but he was sweating with effort by the time he was done.

The cheap plastoid kit of the stormtrooper armour littered the deck around him, carelessly tossed away. He wanted to destroy it, but it would be smart to hang onto it until they figured out exactly how they were getting inside Gideon’s cruiser. The thought of putting it back on made his stomach turn, but he would do it again for the kid. 

His eyes fixated on the trooper’s breastplate, paltry and matte grey on the ground. It had felt like wearing tissue paper, wrong and perverse on every level, and yet wearing his own set again now, the beskar seemed too heavy. His shoulders sagged and his back ached. He was just tired, he told himself. Sleep would make his armour familiar again. 

It had to.

He turned to the duffel bag, now almost completely empty, and dug out his helmet, cupping it in his hands. The polarised glass of his visor stared back at him, more familiar than his own face. He had to put it back on, but it would not hide him any longer, not completely. Mayfeld knew his face now, and no steel would be able to change that. 

A knock at the door made him flinch, and then hiss as the movement agitated a dozen injuries. 

“Mando?” Cara called. “You good in there?”

“Yes,” he called back, and hastily shoved his helmet back on. His heart was hammering hard, and the glass fogged up with his breath. He would need to let his suit acclimatise again, and that wouldn’t happen instantly. His eyes squeezed closed.

“You need any help in there?”

“No. Come in.”

The door hissed open. Cara’s boots tread heavily on the deck, and he jumped when she touched his arm.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said quietly, and he looked at her through foggy glass. “I was just worried. You were taking a long time.”

“I’m all done now.”

“I see that,” she replied, smiling faintly. “Back to the old you.”

“Yeah,” he rasped.

She let her hand fall away and stepped around him, frowning at the armour on the floor. “Cheap junk,” she muttered. “That must have sucked to fight in.”

“It did.”

Cara looked back up at him, her eyes uncomfortably scrutinising. The fog was slowly fading from his visor.

“Are you okay?” she asked again, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Did something happen in there? Mayfeld’s acting weird, too.”

He swallowed hard and looked away. The words were lodged in his throat. Part of him needed to tell her, tell _someone,_ to excise the tumour of it from his body, but Cara wasn’t the person he should tell. Perhaps Fett. But not now.

“I did what I needed to,” he replied finally.

Her eyes flitted across his visor, searching. He thought for a moment that she would press him, and that he would let it spill out of him anyway, but she didn’t. Instead she smiled.

“This is all for him,” she told him. “It’s worth it.”

“Yes,” he said, and turned to grab the data stick from where he’d set it on the table. He held it out to her. “And we know where the kid is now.”

She reached for it slowly, eyes flicking up to his helmet to ask for permission, and took it gently when he nodded. “I’ll give this to Fett,” Cara said quietly, holding it like a precious thing. “We could have the kid back in as little as twelve hours.”

A tremor rocked through him. They could, if all went according to plan. A plan he didn’t have yet, but he would soon. “Yeah.”

“And we will get him back,” Cara told him, meeting his eyes again. The fog from his breath had finally dissipated. “We will.”

“We will,” he repeated, with all the conviction that was left in him. There was no room for anything else.


End file.
